


Exceptional

by Archangelsings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, America AU, Anxiety, Drug Use, F/F, F/M, I forgot to mention Bel-Air, I'll add more as we go yeah?, Just think of every like rich place in LA and that's kinda where this all starts, M/M, Niall's from the South in this., Set in California, Starts in Beverly Hills, Then Seattle Washington, Underage Drinking, slow-build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-19 08:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1462411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Archangelsings/pseuds/Archangelsings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. </em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <em>People are like clocks, Niall. You’ve got digital and analog, watches and sundials, no two are truly the same but in the end they all tick and beat and tick some more until they stop. Remember that when you feel like you’ve got no way out. People are like clocks and every clock’s got a reset button.</em></p><p> </p><p>Or</p><p>Niall has a mental breakdown during the school play, parties, gets high out of his mind, almost dies and get's sent to a school for troubled rich douches that really has no business existing in the first place.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Clockwork

**Author's Note:**

> Ello all. This was a story that popped in my head like.... a week ago and I've been working on. I kinda ended this chapter here because A) I lowkey had NO idea where to like go w/ it, well like I DID but like I didn't know HOW i was getting there (which I now do after writing that summary LOL) and B) I'd kinda like some general feedback on it, if it's any good so far. So yeah if y'all like it the next chaps will def be longer. And more intense. And darker and all that jazz... yeah. Thanks all. I don't wanna use too many tags cause I dont wanna like spoil it all already buuuut I suppose I needa put the pairing up sooo SOMEONE'll read it.

**Prologue: Clockwork**

_Four minutes and twenty-nine seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

_People are like clocks, Niall. You’ve got digital and analog, watches and sundials, no two are truly the same but in the end they all tick and beat and tick some more until they stop. Remember that when you feel like you’ve got no way out. People are like clocks and every clock’s got a reset button._

**_–Bobby Horan_ **

Niall doesn’t remember much about his birth father. He remembers bits and pieces, vague touches and soothing words but now it’s all been distorted, warped like the grainy images on an old television screen—bordering on forgotten--fading into nothing. The man’s a shadow in his life, imposing and impossible to ignore but weightless and it’s frustrating because half the time it feels like he’s on the tip of an iceberg, about to uncover something more, but in the end… nothing… just white-noise and that same memory of a callused hand ruffling his wavy hair. _Four minutes and nineteen seconds. Ti-tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._

What he _does_ remember though is intangible—broken—feelings like the sense of security that came from his arms or the love in his voice. Niall bites his lip, a furrow in his brow, and trains his eyes on the ground in front of him. His shoulders slump; he couldn’t tell you the color of his father’s eyes or about the wrinkles around his lips or what the sound of his laugh was like or how tall or short he was, but if you asked Niall if he thought he’d been a good man he’d have intrinsically said yes…

Niall shakes his head and kicks at a ball of dust beside his foot, glaring down at it like it had personally offended him. What was the use in remembering? He’s gone; dead for almost twelve years, and still the thought of the father he knew nothing of besides his name and a measly quote about clocks never failed to both make his heart clench and calm him down in a way that was _beyond_ confusing.

 _Four minutes and three seconds._ He kicks the ball of dust out of his range and sighs, running a hand down his face, he doesn't have time for this. He looks up.

 _Three minutes and fifty-five seconds. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick._ Niall stands behind the flimsy red curtain and takes it all in. He can feel the energy thrumming around him like an aura, a high that leaves his stomach clenching and fingers twitching at his sides—his heart beat erratic in his chest, ready to burst. _Three minutes and forty-five seconds._ He can hear the sound of the out-of-date analog clock on the wall above his head, always slightly off time, slowing down to an almost crawl between the eight and ten; smell the heavy, antsy musk of teens thick and heavy and as familiar as an enemy's touch. _Three minutes and thirty-five seconds_. It’s _terrifying_ and _comforting_ and _crazy_ and _maddening_ and he holds onto that feeling because it’s all he has to keep him _sane_.

 It hits Niall that in less than five minutes _—three minutes and twenty-five seconds he mentally counts down—_ it’s going to be _him_ on that stage, _him_ out there with the spotlight burning holes through his face and scalp, the theatre props being the single barrier between himself and the massive _screw up_ he’s bound to make. He’ll have nothing to save him, no _one_ to help him, only the music playing in the background, the echo of _his_ voice and _his_ body and _his_ acting _theonlyfuckingthing_ to keep the audience engaged. _Him._ Niall Horan from _der middle o’ nerwhere_ Louisiana with the too bright metal smile and the too loud laugh and the _way_ too _gimpy_ hair that always stands up on one side more than the other— _no matter how much gel or time or conditioner or relaxer or whatever the hell else he tries to put in it—_

And _shit_ , if anyone tries to tell Niall that’s _not_ enough pressure on one person _they are fuckin’ lying to his god. damned. face._ He puffs out a breath, sick with nerves, and rubs his chin with the back of his hand, his prickly sandy beard scratching against his fingertips.

Ah, what he wouldn’t give for a beer right now.

It’s stifling and he doesn’t know if it’s the grip his shirt has around his neck or the butterflies in his stomach but whatever it is, it’s driving him insane. He can feel it scratching at the back of his throat, radiating through his shoulders and down to the incessant tap of his foot against the floor, a never ending mantra of mocking laughs and degrading calls in his mind. _Ha, ha! Ha, ha! You’re such a screw up! Get lost loser!_ _You’re more monotone than Kristen Stewart in Twilight! You make nails on a chalkboard sound like fucking Bach!_ He needs a shot. He really, _really_ , needs a god-damn shot right now. He needs this anxious, nervous, _uncool_ , feeling to go away—to leave— _right now_.

He gulps _(can’t breathe)_ and pulls at the collar of his plaid flannel undoing the top button—sweat accentuating the supple curve of his tan collarbone in the low light. Nancy Babafis saunters past him in her too-tight sequin dress and too-tall high heels and he catches a whiff of her too-strong-flowery-perfume and it’s really _all_ too _much_ but _still_ his eyes not so subtly follow the curve of her ass down the hall.

You know… she’d offered to blow him an hour ago—cornering him outside the bathrooms—trailing a _too_ red finger down his chest and pressing _too_ hard against him, but that wasn’t saying much because she offered to blow _everyone_. Still, what type of boy didn’t accept a free blow-job? At the very least it offered a much needed distraction from his nerves. He shook his head and shakily rolled up his sleeves—he needed to focus—it’s too hot but still not hot enough. _Down._ _Roll them back down_.

 _Breathe. Stay calm._ He runs a hand through his hair. _You can do this Niall. You’ve trained for the last five months for this. You’re amazing. Phenomenal. Superb. Extraordinary. Every girl wants you, every boy wants to be you._

_You can do this._

_Tick. Tick. Ti-tick. Tick._

_Two minutes and ten seconds._

_I can’t do this._

He’s feverish and pale; his eyes are glossy and wide. Sweat drips down his brow and he’s shaking— _really_ shaking—he knows it, he feels it in his bones— _he can’t even hold up his damn guitar_ —and he knows he should stop—that he should be breathing regularly—but he _just can’t_. _One minute and forty seconds. Distraction. Distraction._ He needs a distraction. Why isn’t anyone trying to help him? Is he fucking invisible? Why did he sign up for this in the first place? _One minute and twenty seconds._ It wasn’t for his parents. _(It was.)_ It’s not like they’re even coming to the show. _(They don’t come to anything.)_ He doesn’t even _like_ his parents. _(He wishes he did though.)_

_(He’s a coward.)_

_No one cares._

_They all want you to fail._

_One minute._

_Ti-tick. Ti-tick-tick._

_Fail. Mess up. Fuck up. Screw up. Fail. Fail. FAIL!_

Niall grips the fabric of his shirt between twitching fingers and twists, sliding down the rough brick wall, the wool pinching up to the middle of his back. His guitar clangs noisily down beside him. Each breath is ragged, loud and deafening, pushing up into the foreground of his senses, numbing everything else. The world is moving. It’s dragging. It’s speeding. It’s spinning. He tastes bile in the back of his throat and he feels the judgmental stares, hears the condescending giggles.

His head drops between his jean clad legs, body curling in on itself, breaths short. “Shut up.”

  _Knew he shouldn’t’ve gotten the part. McCullen was so much better. And dreamy. Can’t forget dreamy. Let the understudy have a shot huh? Come on, give up, give up, give up!_

He hunches his shoulders up defensively. “Shut up.”

_Give up! Give up!_

“Please just _shut up.”_

_Close your eyes. Breathe in and out just like dad always told you. Focus on the clock. Match your heartbeat to the clicks. One. Tick. Two. Tick. Easy now. Come down. Come off it. Three. Tick._

_Thirty Seconds._

_Twenty._

_Ten._

_Zero._

_Open your eyes._

He shakily gets to his feet.

_It’s showtime._

Niall lets out his breathe, two quick puffs, one, two, and taps the glass face of his battered watch; he’s had it for as long as he can remember. He’s not ready, but he’s as ready as he’s going to be, but… still... He shakily feels the inseam of his jacket, biting his lip and glancing anxiously around him before nervously taking out the little plastic bag the size of the palm of his hand.

_Pathetic. Are you seriously stooping so low so early? The night’s young man._

Niall gulps. He knows he shouldn’t, he knows he should put the bag of pills back in his pocket or better yet toss them down the drain, but he needs it. _Them._ He needs the bubbly, childish, immature, carefree high—the release—the disconnected calm that comes from the pill. He _craves_ it. It calls to him, the urge moving under his skin like an insatiable and uncontrollable _itch_ that just _refuses. to. leave._

 _You’re so weak._ Niall can hear the disappointment and distaste in the voice, _his_ voice, the self-hate. His hands clench the pills in his trembling fist and he hangs his head in defeat, hair hanging over his eyes like a curtain. He _is_ weak, he knows it and right now it disgusts him. It makes him want to cry and scream and rage and jump off the bridge over the 405 freeway. It makes him want to feel in a way he has no desire to at the moment. In a way he _can’t_ afford _to_ at the moment. His resolve steels and he rips open the bag, quickly popping a pill in his mouth.

Niall nods to himself and glances at the mirror beside him, he looks like shit, pale and sickly, but he’s ready. His pupils widen.

            _Now_ he’s as ready as he’s going to be.

 


	2. West Coast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Niall freaks out and Josh comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay all sooo uhm those who feel confused. This... takes place before the first chapter. i THINK I'm going to make the first "Chapter" a prologue sooooo Yeah. tHIS'LL be the official Chapter One. So do note that we won't actually get back to Niall's acting for another chapter or two.
> 
> Also, edits to where Niall's from. For those who read it before the edits. One Niall get's high at the end of chapter 1 now and 2 he's from Louisiana and not New Mexico.
> 
> Ugh on another note I'm SORRY I feel like I've disappointed with this chapter, I wanted it to be done so long ago buttt....no luck. But I'm posting it so hopefully you all will like it as much as the first one. I feel like this one is a little on the dull side but hopefully shit'll pick up soon. 
> 
> Well this chap is longer though. Almost got to my word goal :/
> 
> ANYWAY COMMENT AND LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!

**Chapter One: West Coast**

_Dude, you can say what’cha want ‘bout LA, but you gotta hand it to us big city kids, we definitely know how to paaaaaarrrrrtaaaaaaaayyyyyyy!_

_- **Josh Devine**_

The fact that for seventeen _long_ years Niall has managed to get away with doing virtually, well... _nothing_ —skirting around the edges and doing just the bare minimum to get by—and still somehow managing to do fairly well in his schooling and life _and_ fuck knows what all else, is a _pretty_ damn big accomplishment if he does say so himself. Which he does.

Niall’s life is _pretty_ simple and he likes it that way ( _or_ … maybe he’s just a simple person, but that’s neither here nor there). He’s never been a fan of overcomplicating things. A carrot is orange. A tomato is a fruit. The color of the L.A Dodgers is _blue._ Not navy. Not sky. It’s not _aqua_ or _electric_ or _pastel_ or a _third tone_ _shade_ , it’s just. fucking. _blue._ Keep it simple.

He’s never been one to try and make others feel bad by showing off or sucking up to authority by being all big smiles and charismatic intelligence. Instead he stays comfortably in the middle, because it’s in the _middle_ where you’re most _invisible._ When you’re in the shadows you’re out-casted—you’re seen as a plague but you are still _seen_. When you’re smart you’re a nerd. When you’re a jock, you’re popular. If you’re pretty or dramatic, then you’re the star of the school musical; you’re the star in life. It’s a _spotlight_ and being the lead was never a role he was keen on playing.

But it’s impossible really, because to stay in the middle, you still have to _be_ something. You have to be a goth, or a nerd, or a jock, or star, or a cheerleader, or _something_. If you’re _nothing,_ then you’re _plain,_ if you’re _plain_ you’re _weird,_ and if you’re _weird_ you _stand_ out, and that’s the _last thing he wants_. So he falls into the party boy gig, because every school’s got their go to person for all things exclusive and popular and hip and well… _fun._ And that’s him. It just seemed like a given.

People naturally flock to him even when he doesn’t want them to, and his southern upbringing makes it impossible for him to really be _mean_ to anyone no matter how annoying or egotistic or pigheaded they are. Charismatic and charming with an over the top laugh and a smile that could blind a blind man, he found his place. And it suited him just fine. He was friendly with everyone but friends with no one; it was the life he wanted and the life he earned.

The point is, Niall is a creature of habit. He has one specific route he takes to all of his classes and in the mornings he has a daily ritual that never changes. He likes things simple and direct, and doesn’t take well to beating around the bush. If he wants to fuck you, he’ll say so. If he thinks you should never wear red again because it makes your complexion look sunburned, he’ll let you know. His life is direct and yes sometimes that makes him seem a little narrow minded but it’s just the way he is.

He likes sex. He _really_ likes sex, thinks it was one of the best god given things on the planet besides maybe booze and drugs (can’t forget the blurring high that a single tiny pill can give him) and of course a girl’s ass (he’s an ass man), and the random sprinkling of Bach that he definitely never acknowledges listening to but has on his most played playlist on his I-Pod all the same (keeping it classy). But you know what he likes more than any of that? More than partying, or getting a blowjob or having a Kamikaze on a Friday night while grinding on the first person he sees in a black-light party? Sleep. Niall fucking _loves_ sleep.

In his opinion it is the greatest thing in the universe. He swears that in those eight hours he finds heaven and in that moment where the haze of sleep still lingers between dream and reality is utmost bliss. Niall sighs quietly in his bed. It’s so comfy and sunlight peaks in softly through the curtains. Birds chirp in the trees. The sound of the lawn mower and the smell of freshly cut grass dances in on the gentle breeze filtering in through the open window and everything is just sort of…perfect. Surreal. He’s awake, but… his brain is just sort of… cut off. He burrows back into his sheets taking in those last few moments before his earthly cares and woes filter back to the forefront of his mind.

The lawn mower shuts off and he hears the spritz of the sprinkler system turning on, a single shot as it gurgles to life before erupting in a flurry of water onto the grass below. Niall can picture it, the way the light peaks through each droplet cascading onto the dry earth, a rainbow dancing between them and he knows that the gardener will have moved onto pruning the rose bushes that decorate the Bel-Air estate his step father owns. Niall tenses and a sour taste fills his mouth at the thought, a grimace twisting his lips distastefully down and furrowing his brow. He sighs again, this time in annoyance and opens his eyes. _Wakey, wakey._

Niall throws off his white comforter and stretches, arms reaching up towards the ceiling, the plain white tee he was wearing ridding up against his stomach revealing both the subtle v of his hips and the sandy patch of hair that ghosts up from his navel. Slipping out of bed he pads towards his desk and pulls his phone out of its charger—turning it on—before walking into the adjourning bathroom.

The light flickers on and he rubs the back of his neck while reaching for his tooth brush, humming contently as he feels the tension leave his body. Niall runs a hand through his hair, which looks just a little too rumpled to be considered sexy. Of course considering it never really did what he wanted even when he was at his most patient in the first place, bed head was probably a bit of an improvement.

His shoulders slump as he brushes his teeth, blue eyes staring mournfully back at him, still not really awake and he wishes he could just spend the day in bed. But he can’t. Because… school.

He frowns at his reflection and spits, before rinsing his mouth. He’s forgetting something. It’s pulling at the back of his mind, moving slowly, but… he just can’t quite put his finger on it. His phone buzzes beside him and he picks it up, carelessly unlocking it and opening the text on the screen.

 **From Mama:** _Good luck tonight dear, I wish I could come and see you sing, but you know how it is. Duty calls at the worst of times. XoXo. Stay out of trouble._

His blue toothbrush still hangs out of his mouth and diluted foamy toothpaste drips unattractively from his lips, but he doesn’t really care because, _fuck_ , the show’s tonight. The musical. The damn thing that he’d auditioned for _only_ because his mother had gushed for hours about how much she’d loved acting in it when she was a little girl back in Arkansas. The show she now apparently (unsurprisingly) couldn’t come to. He should’ve known.

The toothbrush falls out of his mouth and Niall snaps out of his daze as the nerves begin to settle in the pit of his stomach. His reflection’s paled considerably and his hand quakes on the grip he has on the marble countertop of the sink. _Fuck._ He should have never agreed to do this.

His watch ticks on his wrist. One. _Tick._ Two. _Tick._ Three _. Tick._ Breathe out. _Tick._ He brings his cell phone to his ear, calling the first person that comes to mind. The only person he can call right now, because he’s the only one who won’t judge or think any less of him. The one person who probably knows him better than himself. _Josh._ He picks up on the third ring.

“Dude, wazzup! Little on the early side eh?”

“Yeah sorry man, just.. what’re you doing right now, ‘m planning on skipping school. You down?”

Josh hums to himself, before answering. “Sure, not doin’ nothin. Nada, zilch, zip, on the table at the mo’ so… fuck it yeah?”

“Right,” Niall grins, “fuck it, you bring the booze--”

“’N you’ll bring the car yeah?”

Niall laughs, “and the girls.” He lets out a breath and lets go of the sink, there’s an angry red mark left on his hand. “I’ll meet ya’ at the hangout at ‘bout nine, ‘kay?”

“You got it brother, salutes and all that jazz, ciao.”

“Ciao.”

_And this is why he fucking loves Josh._

**-exceptional-**

The _hangout_ is nothing special, just an old, slowly collapsing and abandoned parking structure in the middle of Beverly Hills where a Robinson’s May used be. For whatever reason it hadn’t been torn down, just fenced off, allowing green sprigs of ivy to grow all over its surface. Niall grins and pulls up into a spot down the street by a meter and looks up at the once foreboding structure, now just familiar.

He hops out of the car and walks down the street, black vans clapping duly on the concrete beneath him, and casually saunters to the side of building to a place where the fence has caved and ivy has hidden it. He slips inside and wrinkles his nose at the smell of mildew before jumping lithely over the large crack that’s developed over time in front of him.

He makes his way through the structure, kicking random cans, rusty and faded, logo’s warped from water damage and continues upward, towards the roof where he knows Josh’ll be. Niall doesn’t bother with the stairs or the elevator, knowing both haven’t been used in so long he’d be most likely to get stuck and die than anything else. So he slowly spirals upwards, one floor, two floors, three floors, four, roof.

Niall blinks in the sudden light and takes a breath of air before looking over the large lot. Empty paint canisters and lighters litter the ground. A ratty red couch sits in one corner and a string of christmas lights line the walls giving the space an oddly hispter vibe. A glass coffee table sits in front of the couch and in front of it is Josh.

Niall clears his throat. “Yo.”

Josh jumps and looks up, before his face splits into a wide grin and bounces over to him. “Yo man, you get the chicks? I don’t see any chicks.”

Niall laughs and high-fives the other boy before answering, pulling his snap-back over his eyes to block the glare of the sun. “Yeah I got ‘em. They’re gonna meet us at the spot though.”

The two walk over to the coffee table and Josh grabs a bag full of white powder and some pills, before stuffing a pack of cigarettes in his back pocket.

“You came prepared,” Niall noted.

“Course I did, gotta get’cha properly distracted don’t I?” he tosses the pills at the blonde, “these are for you by the way.”

Niall catches them with one hand and puts them in his pocket, tapping it lightly and making a note to put them in his jacket later. “Thanks,” he grins bowing dramatically, “Nev’r so thoughtful a man as this.”

Josh rolls his eyes and slaps Niall on the back. “Yeah come off it, save the dramatics for tonight yeah? Let’s go! Let’s get wild, let’s get sick!”

Niall cringes at the other boys loud voice, but can’t help the smile that comes to his lips. “Whatever you do, please don’t start singing Britney Speares.”

Josh turns and snaps his fingers. “ _It’s Britney bitch.”_

“Oh god, smite me now, you’re English Accent is fucking awful.”

“Her’s is no better.” And well, Niall can’t really argue with that.

 

**-exceptional-**

 

Niall rockets down the street in his Ferrari convertible, a sleek blur of sensual red on the road. The engine purrs and growls excitedly, the coiled tension spinning through its gears and up through its brakes. Niall feels it—mirrors it in his pose—and his muscles tense and coil sinuously where he sits. It spreads throughout his body and crawls up to his chest—past his sternum to his neck, stopping at his lips, which tilt up in a wily and emphatic manner. He can’t help the boisterous laugh that bubbles out care free of his throat.

He’s close. So close he can almost taste it—almost _feel_ it. It roars in his ears and pounds in his chest. The feeling. The scent. His knuckles whiten on the grip of his leather steering wheel and he leans forward, _in, in, in_ solely focused on the stretch of pavement in front of him. It’s almost in his grasp and it whips through his hair, wildly stinging his eyes and tickling the tip of his nose. It makes him wince and squint but he doesn’t _really_ care because he’s almost there—almost to the edge. It beckons and calls and he presses down on the gas pedal that much harder. _Freedom._

Gone are the tall imposing buildings of the city—away goes the noise; the hustle and bustle of metropolis that leaves him feeling panicky and small. The skyscrapers grow fewer, the trees grow taller and the sounds grow mellower. The wide open calls to him, whispers in his ear, and he feels the tug—the pull of rebellion—growing stronger with every passing second.

It drowns out every other sound, every other thought, urge, and desire in his head until all that’s left is a single voice whispering, crescendoing, demanding and repeating the only word that matters: _Free. Free. Free. **Free!**_ Niall’s heart thuds in his chest and he leans back in the heated plush Ferrari seat, Ray-Ban’s perched now precariously on the bridge of his nose. His loose white _That’s What She Said_ tank-top billows out around his sides, his toned frame athletically lean and seeming to glow with health. Light blonde hairs the color of gold glint in the harsh morning light on the sun-kissed skin of his arms and a raggedy worn red and navy-blue plaid flannel is draped over the back of his seat, the old watch that his father had given him stuttering laboriously on his right wrist, leather band cracked and frayed with age.

“Damn, what’s gotten into you huh?!” Josh kicks his feet up on the dash of Niall’s convertible as Niall speeds around another bend crazily, whooping loudly, spliff hanging from his lips and arms thrust wildly in the air as the car careens erratically to the left, dangerously close to the edge of the road. Beer bottles and empty flasks of whiskey clink in the back seat, crashing against one another and Niall grins with a manic sort of intent in his eyes.

“Livin’ on the edge man! Let’s get crazy! Let’s get sick, yeah?!” Niall hollers back. It’s ten A.M and he’s already stupidly, blessedly, _drunk._ Everything feels light and fuzzy at the edges and it’s fucking brilliant.

He speeds down the highway, the Los Angeles cityscape beside him feeling less consequential with every passing second. A light almost childlike joy surfaces in the pit of his stomach now that the constant drone of traffic and people has been left behind. See, Niall’s a small town boy—always has, always will. His body craves the wide open spaces that surround his hometown in Louisiana, aches for the golden plains and prairies that span all across the state, and bathes in the crisp air so unlike what he’s forced to breathe here. He hates them, he hates New York and Chicago and Detroit and he especially hates Los Angeles. He hates the thick and congested, smoggy air. He hates the feeling of insignificance when people press around him, stifling and shoving and pushing and that every face is just like every other. _Isolated._ Dead set on _their_ goals. On _their_ lives. No one else matters and no one else can get in their way. There’s no variation, no distinction, no intimacy, you’re just another body in a sea of bodies and he hates that. He hates that it’s all just so damn _fake_!

“How much longer man?!” Josh asks lolling his head to the side as they enter a more forested zone.

“Not much, the cabin’s just up ahead!”

“Sweet!”

They pull up beside the cabin and Niall parks his car, hopping out.

“Where’re the girls?” Josh asks looking around.

Niall shrugs.”Dun’ know they should’ve—,” his phones buzzes in his pocket and he looks down at it. “Well that’s great.”

“What?”

“They got caught by their parents so they can’t come,” he says showing Josh the text.

“Lame.”

“Seriously.”

“Well then.” Josh stretches and grins at Niall, “orgy’s out, but we can still have fun yeah?” He wiggles his eyebrows in a way that is so ridiculous it can’t even be considered sexy, but Niall nods all the same.

“Definitely.”

Josh walks over to the cabin, shedding his shirt as he goes. “Well then, let’s get to it yeah?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note Lana Del Rey's West Coast goes fabulously with this chapter. That and Yo Yo Ma's cello playing of Bach. Check it out. PLEASE LEMMEE KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!!!
> 
> THANKS TO just_let_me_be for reassuring me of the slightly less than crappy nature of this chapter! Check out her fic Half a Heart if you haven't! It's great!
> 
> Also for those who read my other fics, I've started working on Sex is in Our Veins PT 2 again thanks to the lovely motivation of teh amazing Miraal sooooo HOPEFULLY i'll finish that soon!


End file.
